


Waiting for a Sign

by wolfinpink



Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Deaf Character, F/M, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 17:26:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18945520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfinpink/pseuds/wolfinpink
Summary: Z Nation one shot. The group saves a deaf survivor (you) and to your utter delight, 10K can sign.Inspired by gifs of 10k signing in that one episode coz it's literally the cutest thing ever.





	Waiting for a Sign

**Author's Note:**

> I'd call myself 10K trash, but anyone who likes 10K clearly has immaculate taste.  
> I loved writing a deaf character, being partially deaf myself. I'm thinking of doing another part to this, fluffier and more 10K, and then eventual smut. Let me know if you like it, and would like a second part!

The cacophony of growls and snarls is lost on you, but the countless feet beating into the ground on your heels keeps you going. You can feel the impacts vibrate up your legs and bite into your chest. You push harder, run faster, using every molecule of will power not to glance behind.

Higher ground. It’s the only option you can think of. But ahead of you is an expanse of suburban road and dilapidated houses. You could swing into a front door, hope it’s unlocked, hope that nothing else is inside. Maybe scale a car, hope they don’t grab your legs and pull you straight into their blood drenched jaws. 

Seems like a lotta hoping in a world not inclined to reward it.

You’re heaving now. Out of breath. Your legs are starting to ache and your lungs burn. The beat of your heart matches your sprint as each step collides with pavement keeping you only centimetres out of the Z’s reach. 

You’ve got to make a decision soon or it’ll be made for you. 

Your eyes are drawn to the slight left in the distance. Movement. If its another miniature horde you’re done for; start your prayers now and you’ll finish them at the pearly gates. But no. They move with purpose, straight backs and precision gestures.

Survivors. Usually you’d steer clear of people until you were sure of their intentions but in this case you were ready to make an exception.

They were still a ways off, engaged in their business, huddled around the hood of a car. You snatched for the pistol on your hip, but clearly your whole body was exhausted because you missed by a mile. You were raking in ragged dry breaths, each one felt like it was sprinkled with sawdust. Even your eyes felt dry enough to splinter.

You try again, this time dragging the gun from its holster. You lock it into place and aim at the sky. The gun kicks back into your palm as you fire. A single round. No need to waste bullets.

The survivors all snap their heads towards you, taking only a moment before drawing their own weapons. Your body sags as you strain to push yourself forward more. Just a little bit further.

A darkhaired boy with goggles on his forehead raises his rifle and you see the kickback and flash as he fires in your direction. You keep moving. Soon a dark-skinned woman has her pistol drawn as well and she begins firing shots around you. An older gentleman and a redhead ready their melee weapons as you close in on their position. 

The herd behind you doesn’t vibrate your chest anymore, the feeling of their feet pounding into cement is waning. You try to slow down as you reach the group but your legs feel like they’ll collapse if you don’t move them, so you slam into the side of their truck and spin around, pistol in hand.

The goggle wearing boy to your left snipes the last Z and it falls within a metre of your feet.

Before you decide to, your body slips down the truck side and you hit the ground with a thud, pistol lolling in your hand as it rests on your thigh. You have no idea how long you had been running but now every square inch of your body feels like it’s throbbing, gasping for air. You take a moment to catch your breath before looking up to your saviours.  
The woman with the pistol has replaced it in its holster and now kneels to you. Her brows knit together as her mouth moves. Her body radiates authority, but her eyes are soft as she tries to speak to you.

Your strength is slowly returning, and you snap your pistol back in place before shaking your head and bringing your hands up to your face. You touch your lips and then your ear.  
Her mouth continues to move, but she nods and stands up. The group have sloppily surrounded you; their body language is relaxed but ready. The older gentleman shrugs at whatever the dark-skinned woman is telling him. The redhead shakes her head as well.

You’ve been with a few groups, and communication always took a while. You’re a decent shot, a good eye, after years of having to rely on your other senses. But in the end having a deaf lookout, one it takes precious seconds to struggle to communicate with is usually too much to risk. You’ve ended up on your own more times than you care to count. You sigh deeply, gathering your strength to thank these strangers and continue your way when the goggle boy kneels beside you.

He pauses for a moment and you take in his face. His sea eyes are looking thoughtful. A sharp jawline curves towards his neck and his pitch black hair is spikey, unkempt. His lips draw your attention as his tongue darts out to wet them. You’re prepared for him to try and speak to you again but instead he raises his hands.

“Hi. I am…” his hands hesitantly being to sign. Something is lodged in your throat as you watch him. You haven’t spoken to someone like this in years.

“Ten thousand.” He finishes and gives you an apologetic smile. You ask what he means. Followed by a string of other questions: if these people are safe, if he’s deaf himself, where they’re headed, you thank him for saving you.

He cuts you off with a wave of his hands and shakes his head.

“Slow. Please.” He signs.

A smile breaks out across your face so wide you feel your cheeks start to hurt. His hands are hesitant as he signs but his movements are fluid. His long fingers curl around the words perfectly. Your heart aches painfully good as you watch him concentrating.

“Ten thousand is my name.” He smiles as he explains.

“Hi Ten Thousand.” You sign back, slowly so he can keep up, “I’m (Y/N).”


End file.
